


and the crashes are heaven

by the_black_apple



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_black_apple/pseuds/the_black_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could picture them in his mind: her in cream fur with gold embroidery, pearls dangling from her delicate ears. He beside her, with his dark Tudor coloring, in deep red velvet and black fur. They would make a striking contrast, the white rose and the red, and there was power in imagery, he knew. She was intelligent and clever, he'd learned first from Stanley and then soon after from Elizabeth herself. She was also kind; the faces of servants and common folk glowing with pride and happiness as they met her spoke to that. He understood her appeal to England where other Lancastrians (and many Yorkists) did not: the commoners saw in her a bit of themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the crashes are heaven

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: This is probably historically inaccurate and everything's botched but I'm guessing no one's reading The White Queen fanfic for historical accuracy. Please forgive any glaring errors. This is all pure fantasy, though w/r/t characterization I've kind of mixed what I know of their real personalities and habits with how the show portrayed them. While I liked the actor that played Henry well enough, I didn't much care for the actress that played Elizabeth of York so, warning: object of Henry's affection may not appear as she did in the series. I don't have an actress in mind, just my own version of her. YMMV. All comments appreciated, even constructive criticism. Updates might be slow, I don't have much experience writing and I started this more as a challenge to myself.

The Lady Elizabeth was angelic in her beauty. Her hair shimmered gold in one light and crimson in the next, as though it could not decide which color pleased it best. She'd inherited her mother's haughty dragon's eyes, hooded and wide; though while Lady Grey's eyes were of the palest blue, her daughter's sparkled with a warmth he assumed was inherited from her father. Indeed, everything about her was somehow infused with a golden warmth. She is a princess truly and entirely without equal, Lord Stanley had told him. His mother's husband had not spoken falsely.

She was possessed of a swan's grace, even now, perched sideways upon a horse. _How do ladies bear it?_ She was light and free in her movements as she rode in great swooping arcs about the grounds. Like a snake, his mother had said once. He winced. His mother, being herself a blunt force, did not often appreciate subtlety nor did she see the strengths of those she did not like. He'd learned that quickly on the journey here. She could see no value in the Lady Elizabeth that was not political. In his mother's eyes Lady Elizabeth was merely a bastard with a convenient lineage, a witch's daughter, a tool to be used.

He, however, saw the personification of the York rose. He could picture them in his mind: her in cream fur with gold embroidery, pearls dangling from her delicate ears. He beside her, with his dark Tudor coloring, in deep red velvet and black fur. They would make a striking contrast, the white rose and the red, and there was power in imagery, he knew. She was intelligent and clever, he'd learned first from Stanley and then soon after from Elizabeth herself. She was also kind; the faces of servants and common folk glowing with pride and happiness as they met her spoke to that. He understood her appeal to England where other Lancastrians (and many Yorkists) did not: the commoners saw in her a bit of themselves.

There was also the issue of family. His family, his mother's family, his father's family - all small. But Elizabeth's father was one son of three, her mother one child of fourteen. She herself had once claimed four brothers and three sisters. It was no guarantee, of course, that she would bear him so many children. But it gave him hope. He'd no brothers, no sisters, no one to play with when he was a boy. He did not want a child of his to know the same loneliness.

He spared a thought for her two youngest brothers, Edward and Richard. The Princes in the Tower. Dead, most likely, though no bodies had yet been found. He had been a boy in a tower once. He, too, had lived in isolation and fear. He prayed their souls were at rest.

"She has much energy." Jasper liked her as well. His uncle, the only father he'd ever known, clapped him on the arm in greeting. They stood shoulder to shoulder, as they so often had, and watched as Elizabeth urged her horse on, her warm breath puffing in the crisp air. It was drizzling and grey.

"She is restless. She hates this place." So did he. Live here his mother may but that did not make it home. Mist was beginning to envelop the grounds and it reminded him of the tower, of the ship, of Brittany and of Wales and of every other dreary place he'd lived in his twenty-eight years. Too many places and none of them home.

Elizabeth rode out farther into the mist, a phantom in the waning light. Perhaps he would find a home with her.


End file.
